


Struggling

by Airheart



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/Airheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a king struggles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struggling

The king's chamber has fallen into disrepair since the war. Half of the walls have fallen in, and the ones left standing are crumbling, degrading into rubble as all great things eventually do. The once-majestic room has been ravaged by time, but there is still a door to be closed and a wall to lean against. It is here that Malekith and Algrim escape to—escape from the preparation for war and the looming darkness that will soon come to pass. For a long, silent moment, all they can do is look at each other. Words are slow coming, but soon Algrim finds his tongue. He bows deeply and places one arm crossways against his armor-clad chest in an old gesture of respect. Malekith watches him unblinkingly.

"My lord," says Algrim, still with his head tilted downwards. His hair gleams in the moonlight, giving him a sort of halo round his face. It is breathtaking.

"There is no need for such formalities here," Malekith whispers. Algrim looks up again, and Malekith is struck speechless by his lieutenant’s black face. Algrim has always been so expressive, his emotions so much more evident because of the stark contrast of his skin to his eyes and brow. For this, he has learned to keep his face set into a mask that betrays no thoughts, no feelings when he must be steel for his troops, his people, and for his king.

But in these chambers, in this familiar hall, he wears no such mask, and his heart appears as though on his sleeve. Malekith never ceases to be amazed—touched, even—by the way Algrim looks upon him; with such devotion and adoration and love… His plan weighs heavily on his mind. But he cannot bring himself to tell of it yet, and simply lays his hand against Algrim’s scarred cheek.

“You ought to rest, my lord,” Algrim says quietly, even as he leans into his king’s touch. “Asgard will not go easily. You will need—”

“I have been resting for five thousand years, Algrim,” says Malekith. His voice is still powerful as it is when he is commanding an army, still as rousing, but now there is quality to it that Algrim has not heard from him in a long, long time and it is almost troubling. He sighs and covers Malekith’s hand with his own, gazing at his king as though he has never seen him before. “But you...I’ve not seen you for as long.” Their breath is warm on each other’s skin, more soothing than any healer’s salve. Malekith studies Algrim’s face, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve not seen you, or…” Malekith takes a deep, trembling breath, “...or touched you, or kissed you in centuries.” He pulls Algrim closer, until they are standing chest to chest and their noses are nearly touching.

“Nor I you,” Algrim breathes. There is a split-second of silence, pure and utter silence save for the sound of the two elves breathing. Algrim tilts his head forward, brushing his mouth lightly against Malekith’s, and they both inhale sharply.

Then Algrim pushes Malekith against the nearest remaining wall and catches his king’s lips in a kiss so heated and passionate that both of them are surprised by it. Algrim only falters for a second, as though he has forgotten what is and is not acceptable, but the way Malekith grips the back of his neck, drawing him closer… Their chestplates clink as they clutch at each other, trying to fit centuries and centuries of missed contact into that moment. Malekith is firmer, almost rougher in touching Algrim this time—he twines his fingers in the warrior’s white hair, tugging and mussing the meticulous braids. He knows in his heart that had he been a lesser man, Algrim would have struck his head from his shoulders for undoing the tight, sleek plaits, and for some unknown reason that makes him feel even more powerful than the Aether itself.

There is a reason that he trusts this elf above all others, a reason that he has chosen him as his partner-of-heart-and-mind and as his lieutenant in rule and in war. Malekith knows that Algrim is the only elf in all the nine realms that he would entrust with his plans. He knows that Algrim would gladly do anything in his power to bring reality to his king’s wishes.

Still, dread gathers like a storm cloud in the back of his mind.

Algrim pulls away from him ever so slightly, leaving a fraction of an inch of space between their lips, still close enough that Malekith can feel the warmth of his breath. They are still for a moment, standing there in the half-darkness with their eyes closed, each supporting the other. Far away, they can hear the preparation for war.

Finally, Malekith opens his eyes and lifts his chin, examining his handiwork. “It seems I’ve ruined your braids.”

“No matter.”

“No matter?” Malekith raises his eyebrows. “It will irk me even if it does not irk you. Turn.” Algrim gives him an almost exasperated look before turning around, and Malekith sets about straightening his warrior’s braids.

He manages to undo most of the first plait before the weight of everything that is, was and has yet to pass comes crashing down on his shoulders, and he has to stop and rest his head against Algrim’s. His throat feels tight.

“Malekith?” Algrim asks, and the concern in his voice is like a dagger in Malekith’s heart. “Are you well?”

 _No_ , Malekith wants to say. _No, everything is backwards and I feel as though there is a black hole in the pit of my stomach that threatens to turn me inside-out and I find that I do not dread the idea of death today. I wish that I was not here, that I did not exist. I wish that the light had never come. I wish so many things, but I cannot share any of them with you._

He is still for a moment, not speaking and hardly breathing. Algrim asks him again if he is alright, but somehow he cannot lie and say yes. He is a king, a captain, a warrior, the most terrible and powerful of all his people—they look to him when they need strength and resolve, as they do now, but how can he inspire them when he cannot inspire himself? He has lost his wife, his children, most of his race and soon he will lose Algrim in a monster made of stone.

But he cannot bring himself to regret the mission. He hates the light, he hates the Asgardians and all that they have done to him and his people. He wants them gone. All of his actions up to this day have been essential to this goal—even killing his own armies, which still haunts him even now. The floor of his realm is still coated in their ashes, and the ashes of their families and friends and lovers.

Yet amongst all of his anger and grief, he cannot find remorse. Perhaps that is the true mark of a Svartalfr.


End file.
